Work Text:
The automatic doors of the Asda in Manchester slid open with a tired whoosh, letting in a gust of damp evening air and the distant sound of traffic splashing through puddles outside. It had been raining on and off all day—the kind of stubborn northern drizzle that never fully committed to a storm but refused to leave.
Dan had been on shift for four hours.
Four.
Very.
Long.
Hours.
He leaned against the end of Aisle 12—Hair Care—restocking bottles of conditioner with the slow, dramatic movements of someone who had emotionally checked out somewhere around hour two. His green uniform felt slightly too warm, and the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like they were personally offended by his existence.
Manchester evenings were always busy. Students grabbing meal deals. Parents arguing over cereal brands. Someone inevitably asking where the milk was while standing directly in front of the milk.
Dan sighed, scanning a barcode.
That was when he noticed him.
The guy had been standing in front of the dry shampoo section for so long that Dan had started measuring time by it.
First fifteen minutes: Okay, normal browsing.
Forty minutes: Maybe he’s very particular.
One hour: This is getting strange.
Two hours: This is now a lifestyle choice.
The stranger picked up another bottle, held it inches from his face, and squinted at the label like it contained the answer to a complicated exam question. Then he carefully placed it back on the shelf in exactly the same position.
Dan watched him run a hand through his hair.
It was black. Very black. Thick and slightly messy, falling over his forehead in dramatic layers. But it was also undeniably greasy—shiny at the roots, clumping together in a way that suggested it had been at least a couple of days since its last wash. The style had that slightly chaotic, emo-rock look, the kind you’d see in old band photos or music videos—dark, bold, and a bit rebellious, even if it clearly needed help.
Every few seconds, the fringe slipped into his eyes, and he’d push it back with mild frustration, only for it to fall forward again like it had its own personality.
Dan folded his arms.
That hair, he thought.
That is a cry for professional intervention.
Another ten minutes passed.
The guy glanced over his shoulder again, scanning the aisle like he expected someone to burst around the corner at any moment. His shoulders were tense, posture slightly hunched, like he was trying to make himself smaller.
Dan finally gave in.
“Right,” he muttered. “Customer service time.”
He straightened his name badge—Dan—and walked down the aisle with the reluctant bravery of someone about to approach a wild animal.
“Hi there,” he said, putting on his best polite retail voice. “Can I help you find anything?”
The guy jumped.
Actually jumped.
He spun around so quickly he nearly dropped the can of dry shampoo in his hand. Up close, he looked even more dramatic—pale skin, bright blue eyes, and that messy black hair framing his face like he belonged on a concert poster rather than in a supermarket in Manchester.
“Oh!” he said, blinking rapidly. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“No worries,” Dan replied. “You’ve just been… browsing for a while.”
There was a brief, awkward silence.
The guy leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“I’m hiding,” he whispered.
Dan stared at him.
“You’re hiding.”
“Yes.”
“In the dry shampoo aisle.”
“Yes.”
Dan pinched the bridge of his nose.
“From… what, exactly?”
The guy glanced left and right, then whispered even more dramatically:
“An A-list male actor.”
Dan froze.
The words sat there for a second, like a joke that hadn’t decided whether it was funny yet.
“I see,” Dan said slowly. “And you chose Asda in Manchester as your secret bunker.”
“It was the nearest building,” the guy admitted. “And I panicked.”
Dan looked at the shelf, then back at him.
“You’ve been reading labels for two hours.”
“I ran out of excuses to move aisles,” the guy said sheepishly.
Dan let out a short laugh before he could stop himself.
The stranger looked relieved, like the tension had finally cracked.
“I’m Phil,” he said, holding out his hand.
Dan hesitated, then shook it.
“Dan.”
Phil’s hand was warm and slightly nervous. Up close, Dan could see the faint shine of oil at his roots again, the way his fringe stubbornly refused to stay in place.
Dan glanced down at Phil’s basket.
Inside were four different dry shampoos.
One for volume.
One for brunettes.
One labeled “tropical freshness.”
And one very clearly designed for dogs.
Dan raised an eyebrow.
“Do you have a dog?”
Phil followed his gaze, then froze.
“…No.”
“Then maybe don’t start using pet products.”
Phil looked genuinely horrified.
“I nearly bought dog shampoo for my own hair.”
“It would’ve been a bold move,” Dan said.
Phil laughed—a soft, slightly embarrassed sound—and something warm flickered in Dan’s chest.
“So,” Dan said, picking up one of the cans. “Let’s fix this situation.”
“My hiding situation or my hair situation?”
“Both,” Dan replied.
They stood side by side in the aisle, comparing labels like scientists conducting an important experiment. Dan explained ingredients and how dry shampoo worked, gesturing confidently. Phil listened with intense focus, nodding along like this was critical information.
At one point, Phil read the back of a bottle out loud in a dramatic voice.
“‘Instant oil absorption for a fresh, clean look.’ That sounds suspiciously like wizardry.”
“It’s just powder,” Dan said.
Phil looked impressed anyway.
Eventually, after much discussion, Phil selected one can and held it up proudly.
“This one,” he declared. “It feels emotionally correct.”
Dan snorted.
“That is absolutely not how shampoo works.”
Phil smiled.
“Still counts.”
There was a pause then—quiet, comfortable, different from before. The sounds of Manchester traffic hummed faintly through the walls. A store announcement crackled overhead about reduced bakery items.
Phil shifted his weight, looking slightly nervous again.
“So,” he said carefully, “do you always help strangers this much?”
“Only the ones hiding from famous actors.”
Phil hesitated, then met Dan’s eyes.
“Would it be weird,” he asked, “if I waited for you to finish your shift and bought you a coffee somewhere nearby?”
Dan felt warmth creep up his neck.
He glanced at the clock above the aisle.
Fourteen minutes left.
He looked back at Phil—at the messy black hair, the hopeful expression, the slightly awkward smile that made something flutter in his chest.
“Only if,” Dan said slowly, “you promise to actually use the dry shampoo.”
Phil grinned.
“No promises,” he replied. “But I’ll try.”
Dan couldn’t stop his own smile from appearing.
And for the first time that rainy evening in Manchester, his shift didn’t feel quite so long anymore.